


so begins a contract

by rathalos



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Sahathri is stressed always, a day in the life, murder time, tfw ur mages guild classmate hires u to kill ur thieves guild colleague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21609451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathalos/pseuds/rathalos
Summary: “Well, here we are, I guess. Um, sorry about the smell. But that’s not what we’re here for. I need—” Onmund pauses, takes a deep breath, steels himself. “I need you to kill a Wood Elf. His name is Enthir.”Sahathri’s brain crashes to a halt.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9
Collections: Holiday TES Fanfic Fest!





	so begins a contract

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this at like 2am, so if anything doesn't make sense or feels weird blame that

It just goes to show that Sahathri can’t have a peaceful day when the first thing he hears out of Nazir’s mouth is, “We’re backlogged.”

“We’re what,” Sahathri says flatly, grabbing a sweetroll off the table and cramming it in his mouth. He chews his food a breakneck speed, grinning when Nazir scowls in disgust. “It’s breakfast. Why are we doing stressful things during breakfast?”

“Breakfast for everyone else ended two hours ago,” Nazir points out, and Sahathri shrugs. “Well, I’ll say it again. We’re backlogged. What with all the recent events, training new initiates, rebuilding the Sanctuary, no one has had the time to take on any contracts. Unfortunately, the rest of Skyrim never got the message, and now that the Night Mother actually hears _every_ Black Sacrament performed, we’re up to our necks in contracts.”

“So you want me to, what, help lighten the load?” Sahathri asks.

“Oh, sure, if you feel like it,” Nazir says in a voice that brokers no room for argument. He hands Sahathri a crinkled piece of parchment, taps on the top left corner of it with his index finger. “Word in Winterhold is someone up at the College has been doing a bit of midnight prayer. A Nord named Onmund. Talk to him, see what he wants.”

“I don’t talk,” Sahathri says tiredly, taking the paper from him and scanning it over quickly. It contains a general description of Onmund, which is of no use to Sahathri, and a few scribbled lines of unreadable text. “Our patrons do that well enough.”

“Don’t take your time! Sithis knows we’re not running out of these damn things any time soon,” Nazir says. “And if you see Cicero, tell that clown to help out with some of these too.”

Sahathri snorts. “And you think that’ll work?”

“It’s more of a last resort,” Nazir says. “Now go, get out of my sight and kill someone for me.”

*

It is difficult to reconcile the Onmund Sahathri knows with the man who’s supposedly performing the Black Sacrament, but one of the first things Sahathri learned is to never take outside appearances for granted. He knows many if not all of the College would have a hard time accepting he is both the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood and the ex-Archmage of the College of Winterhold, after all.

He spends roughly half a day doing nothing in the back of a wagon, and another half sleeping off his headache in his bed in the Hall of Attainment. When he rests he is dead to the world, and when he wakes he is alive, ready to face whatever the hell Onmund wants from him.

With great reluctance, he dons his distinctive Shrouded armor. At the last moment before he leaves his room he casts an illusion over his face and tail, thinking to obscure his identity from Onmund.

_Now, if I were performing the Black Sacrament, where would I be?_

The only answer there really is is the Winterhold Midden—where common sense and caution go to die—so he slips down the trapdoor, balancing precariously on the half-rotted ladder.

He takes no more than a few steps forward before the pungent, bitter smells of nightshade and rotting meat waft toward him, carried by a chilly breeze.

Sahathri follows his nose toward the source of the smell, trusting it not to lead him astray. After a short while of navigating through twists and turns, past failed experiments forgotten years ago, he comes to a stop in front of a plain wooden door and pushes it open.

Inside, as expected, are the components of the Black Sacrament. Sahathri stalks over toward the ritual on silent feet, taking note of the copy of _A Kiss, Sweet Mother_ resting on the floor a small ways away from him.

It’s been a good while since the Sacrament has been performed, Sahathri would guess, judging by the state the nightshade is in—droopy, dried out, petals crushed long ago staining the ice-slicked floor—and the fact that the human heart is half-frozen, half-rotted, a sad lump of flesh forgotten.

He wonders if Onmund has changed his mind by now. But even as the thought enters through his mind, he feels a tug in the back of his mind, so uniquely Night Mother, and he sighs. He must at least find out.

Sahathri makes his way back out of the Midden, making sure to hide any trace of his presence, and once he is back in the relative privacy of his own room, he casts Clairvoyance.

The spell is notoriously finicky, has earned a well-deserved reputation for showing misleading or downright false paths, but Sahathri has learned fairly well to interpret the visions he sees. Clairvoyance tells him, in an extremely roundabout way, that Onmund is currently taking a late-night stroll among the high ramparts of the College, so Sahathri ascends the stairs, braces himself against the cold, recasts his illusion for good measure, and steps outside.

He finds Onmund soon enough—the man is pacing so hard Sahathri thinks he might worry tracks into the stone. It is easy to stalk up behind him, to tap him on the shoulder and hide a small smile when he yelps in surprise.

“Brelyna, is that . . . you . . . Oh, divines, you actually showed up,” Onmund says, looking faint. Sahathri stays silent. “Well, I suppose I did call you, after all. And who knows how far away you are, right? Um—it is you, yeah? The, uh . . . contracter?”

Sahathri nods once, decisively.

“Okay. Okay,” Onmund says. “Let’s—let’s talk somewhere else. Follow me.”

Onmund leads him, predictably, into the Midden, and then further into the room where he had performed the Black Sacrament.

“Well, here we are, I guess. Um, sorry about the smell. But that’s not what we’re here for. I need—” Onmund pauses, takes a deep breath, steels himself. “I need you to kill a Wood Elf. His name is Enthir.”

Sahathri’s brain crashes to a halt.

“He, well, I did something stupid a while ago and sold my family heirloom to him,” Onmund explains, as Sahathri watches a slow-mo of his entire life plays out before his very eyes, “and I want it back, and even offered to pay and—well, the point is I need you to kill him so I can reclaim my heirloom.”

Silently, Sahathri wonders whether there is any way he can get out of the contract. Unfortunately, his gut is telling him the answer is a resounding no.

“I have gold,” Onmund says. “Quite a lot of it, now that I don’t need to try buying my necklace back from Enthir. I can give it to you, all of it, about five hundred septims in total. Is—is that all right?”

_Get a fucking grip, Sahathri._

_(AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH)_

_Get yourself together!_

_(AAAAAAAAAaaaaahokay.)_

Sahathri stands there, still for a moment, giving off an air of consideration, before deliberately extending a hand.

“P-pay first?” Onmund asks. Sahathri shakes his head. “Proof? Oh, I can definitely show you the proof. It’s in the drawer of that wardrobe over there—yes, the bottom drawer—see?”

Sahathri stands back up and gives him an approving nod.

“So you’ll take the contract?” Onmund asks.

Sahathri, barely resisting the urge to sigh, nods.

“Great. Great! Well, I’ll be waiting. For news. And all that. Sooooo . . . bye now,” Onmund says. Moments later he is gone, door shutting softly behind him, most likely making his escape back to the warm rooms of the living quarters.

*

Sahathri mentally composes exactly three letters:

1.

_To Karliah,_

_Hypothetically, what if Enthir died? More specifically, if I murdered him. I’m aware we are all friends but something has come up. Get back to me soon with thoughts & opinions._

_Sahathri._

2.

_Nazir,_

_Wouldn’t it be funny if I didn’t do this contract?_

_Sahathri._

3.

_fuck_

He writes and sends exactly none of these.

*

Sahathri has a headache, which isn’t unusual in any way. But it’s just the damned contract.

Realistically, the Guild could always find another fence. Winterhold isn’t a hold heavy on crime, and the place is swarming with guards now more than ever since the events involving the Eye of Magnus.

But. _But._

(Sahathri is beginning to learn there is always a but.)

Karliah and any other members of the Guild who know Enthir will be upset. And Enthir is one of the core members of the Guild, even though he’s located so far from Riften. The Guild would be up in arms about this, especially if they ever learned it was a Dark Brotherhood killing.

To survive, the Thieves Guild has made countless deals and compromises, most of which have been some variation of: I don’t steal from you, you don’t destroy my organization. For the Dark Brotherhood, there is no such thing as an off-limits target. The Night Mother gives you a contract, you follow it.

The Thieves Guild very well may break away from the mutual understanding it has with the Dark Brotherhood over something like this. Which would be, to say the least, bad. The Sanctuary is barely repaired yet and Delvin Mallory is basically the entire reason they can pay for everything.

(However, the more Sahathri thinks back on the hassle it had been to send fucking _Cicero_ into the heart of the Guild to beg Delvin Mallory to set them up with some connections, the more he thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to cut away that particular aspect of his life.)

He doesn’t even try to envision the uproar the College would be in if one of its members were murdered, not to mention if it ever caught wind of the Black Sacrament being performed on its grounds.

And he definitely does not think about the simple fact that he counts Enthir among an already-small group of friends.

Sahathri growls, turns over in bed, and tries again to fall asleep.

*

In the end there is really only one choice. Sahathri is loyal to the Night Mother and to Sithis, forever until they welcome him into the Void.

That is why he slips out of bed during the midnight hours, dons his Shrouded armor and feels stupid in it as usual, and creeps off toward Enthir’s room.

It is simple enough to cast an overpowered Calm spell to make sure Enthir doesn’t wake up, won’t scream or shout or anything, but in the moments before the kill, Sahathri hovers there, dagger poised over Enthir’s unconscious form, debating, debating, debating.

He licks his muzzle. His mouth feels dry.

Sahathri draws the dagger over Enthir’s throat.

Task finished, he cleans his dagger, sheds his armor, and falls into bed. He can deal with everything else in the morning.


End file.
